


Domestic Harmonies 5: The Garden (A Thorny Decision)

by Mizmak



Series: Domestic Harmonies [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Short & Sweet, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:00:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24591937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizmak/pseuds/Mizmak
Summary: Part 5 of an 8-part slice-of-life series where an angel and a demon learn how to live together.  Crowley ought to love working in the garden...so why is it causing him so much trouble?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Domestic Harmonies [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1762777
Comments: 7
Kudos: 40





	Domestic Harmonies 5: The Garden (A Thorny Decision)

The lavender plant was getting too woody again.

Crowley sat on his favorite garden bench, the one with the wooden seat and decorative fretwork iron back that swirled out from the center in the shape of two wings. He stared at the lavender. Too many old woody stems that had split, all of it looking far too raggedy. It tasked him.

“Can’t I encourage it just a _little?_ I won’t yell. Just a firm tone—“

“ _No_. You promised.”

True. He had promised not to shout at the plants anymore. “What about a bit of strongly worded advice?”

Aziraphale, who had been tending to the raspberries a few feet away, sighed and came over to the bench. He sat beside Crowley, took off his gardening gloves, and set them neatly to one side. “You should have pruned it a month ago. I did tell you.”

The herb beds were Crowley’s responsibility. As were the dratted roses, and the perennial flower beds. Aziraphale had charge of all the fruits and vegetables, since he was the one who used them in their kitchen.

“Why do I have to have the things that need to be pruned?” Lavender. Rosemary. _Roses_. The blasted roses had _thorns_ and not only needed pruning in order to bloom well, then they needed deadheading after blooming. They were no end of trouble. Why couldn’t he get to take care of something simple, like the pots on the front porch with the annuals that only needed dumping out each year and refilling with new ones?

“As I recall,” Aziraphale replied, “when we started this garden, you told me that you were quite keen on tending to something other than houseplants. And I also recall asking which plants you liked best, and you picked those ones out, and now you are complaining merely because they take more work than a houseplant.”

“Is it my fault I didn’t know that?” He would have chosen dandelions, if he had. 

Aziraphale patted Crowley’s thigh. “It takes _time_ to learn about gardening, my dear. And we have plenty of that. Now that you know about the lavender, you won’t make the same mistake next year.” He paused to look out over the herb beds. “The oregano looks lovely.”

“Thanks.” Crowley decided not to tell him that he had thought it was a weed early on in this endeavor of theirs, and had tried valiantly to eradicate it one way or another, but nothing could kill oregano once it got a foothold. He had even tried burning it once. All he got was a scorched trouser leg, a waft of pleasant fumes, and twice as much oregano the next week.

He hated the oregano.

“And the thyme is doing nicely,” Aziraphale continued in his encouragement. “Some of that basil would go well in tonight’s stew. I’ll pick a few leaves, shall I?”

“Be my guest.” He duly noted that the angel had refrained from mentioning the slightly wilted appearance of most of the basil, which he hadn’t watered enough. Crowley had yet to master the fine art of determining which herbs liked lots of water and which didn’t give a fig.

Speaking of figs…he glanced over at the fruit trees. There was one each of apple, pear, peach, and fig. All doing splendidly, because they weren’t _his_ responsibility. 

As Aziraphale put his gloves back on and rose to go collect basil, Crowley got up and sauntered over to the fig tree. He plucked a ripe fruit and bit in, savoring the syrupy moistness of its sweet pulp. 

Then he decided that a few raspberries wouldn’t come amiss, so he strolled over to the patch where Aziraphale had been working earlier, and helped himself. They were ripe and sweet and a little bit tart on his tongue, and he relished each bite, closing his eyes in pleasure.

When he finished, he opened his eyes and turned round to see how his dear friend was doing.

His dear friend had fetched the secateurs and was hacking away at the rosemary.

“Hey!” Crowley stalked over, pushing through the damned oregano to reach Aziraphale’s side. “What are you doing?”

“This plant is going to get as woody as the lavender! It needs work.”

“Yeah, and that’s _my_ job, remember?”

“Well, you aren’t _doing_ your job, by the look of this poor plant! You can’t get them to grow properly simply by talking to them, Crowley. Not even talking to them _nicely_ , as you promised. Gardening takes actual _effort_.”

“Oh, so now I’m not working as hard as you do, is that right?” Crowley crossed his arms. “I’ll have you know that I spent two _hours_ out here yesterday morning yanking up weeds, and another hour whacking dead blooms off the roses.” 

He uncrossed his arms to roll up the sleeves, thrusting his bare arms out. “Look at the scratches! Who in Heaven decided roses looked prettier with _thorns_ on them?”

“I believe that notion arose from _your_ former employers, not mine.”

“Oh, really? What about aphids? Are you going to blame Hell for aphids, too? Or how about hellish dandelions? Oh, and I suppose it was _my_ lot who thought up slugs? Aren’t slugs part of your holy ‘all creatures great and small’ beliefs? Load of rubbish, if you ask me.”

He had a good head of steam going now, and was ready to go full throttle on the woes of gardening until blue in the face which would never happen, since he wasn’t human, but then Aziraphale deflated his intent completely by smiling.

It was a beatific – nay – a positively angelic smile.

“There, there, my dear.” He reached over to pat Crowley’s arm. “You’re tired. You do get cranky when you’re tired. Why don’t you go into the cottage and have a little lie-down? I’ll make tea.”

Crowley pursed his lips. “But I wanted to vent some more. I’m not done yet.”

“Yes, you are.” Aziraphale tucked the pruners away in a pocket, picked up the small pile of basil leaves he had harvested, and guided Crowley out of the herb bed. “Come along.”

Somehow he wound up inside their cottage, and somehow his hands and face got washed, and then somehow he found himself sprawled lengthwise on the sofa with a big pillow behind his head. His shoes had disappeared and an afghan had been spread over his legs.

Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the curtains. He rubbed his eyes and yawned, then settled down. A faint aroma wafted through from the kitchen, a smoky, woodsy odor of Lapsang tea.

He nearly nodded off before Aziraphale brought the tea tray in, setting it on the coffee table. “Here you are.”

Crowley yawned again, then pushed himself up a bit more, and drew his legs up. He patted the sofa. “I made room.”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale took his cup and settled down beside him. As Crowley took up his tea, he said, “Sorry about earlier.”

“Perfectly all right.” 

“Doing things the human way—without miracles—is _hard_.”

“Yes, but it’s also _fun_ , my dear.” Aziraphale leaned in to kiss his cheek. “And much more rewarding. I rather enjoyed watching you eat those raspberries, for example. Not just because you were savoring them, but because _I_ had planted them and helped them to grow—with care, and patience, and hard work.”

Crowley took his hand. All this domestic stuff they’d been doing—sometimes it seemed rather one-sided. “It seems to come naturally for you. Doing things without the help of miracles.”

“Because it’s slower, my dear. It takes more time, and stretches out the pleasure.”

_Hm_. That sounded enticing, in an entirely different way from domestic chores. Crowley cleared his throat. “Am _I_ hard work?” He wrapped an arm around Aziraphale. “Do I need careful, slow handling, too?” He paused. “You know, to make the pleasure last—“

“Stop that.” Aziraphale said it softly, though, with a smile. Then he pulled him into a long, slow, ever so rewarding kiss. “Hm. Yes. Definitely worth doing _that_ without any miraculous aid.”

Crowley nuzzled his cheek. “Not exactly hard work….”

“You taste of raspberries.”

“That’s a good thing, yes?”

“Mm. A very good thing, indeed, my dear.”

“Trade your raspberries for my roses.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. “What’s that?”

Crowley pushed his shirt sleeves up to display the scratches again. “I’ll take care of the raspberries from now on if you take care of the blasted roses.”

“Ah.” With a quick movement of Aziraphale’s fingers, the scratches miraculously vanished.

“Thought you wanted to do the gardening the non-ethereal way.”

“This is different. You shouldn’t have to put up with painful thorns.”

“Then you’ll trade?”

But Aziraphale shook his head. “I have a better idea. We’ll dispense with the whole nonsense of ‘your’ section and ‘my’ section. The whole garden will be _ours_ , and we’ll share all of the work.”

That sounded much more sensible. At least he’d only have to deal with half of the bloody (literally) roses. “Okay.”

“This is what living together means—trying things out, seeing how well they work—or don’t—and making adjustments as we go along.”

“Yeah, I get that. Early days still.” Crowley pulled him into a brief embrace. “I do like what we’ve got so far.”

“So do I, my dear.” Aziraphale kissed him again, lightly, before getting up off the sofa. He held out his hand. “Back to the garden?”

Crowley grasped the angel’s hand, and allowed himself to be pulled up, though he had rather enjoyed their little sofa break. “More basil to pick? Shall I help?”

As they strolled out of the cottage, Aziraphale said, “Actually, I could use some oregano, too. Can you get some of that, please?”

_Hah_. The damnable, overgrown, invasive oregano. Oh, yes, he could get some of that. 

Crowley grinned as he set to the herbs with the secateurs. _Die_ , _you devilish plants_ , he thought, not daring to say it out loud for fear of being chastised by a certain angel nearby.

He enjoyed whacking off large chunks of oregano, and he swore the plants trembled before him, just like in the good old days.

Although _these_ days, here in the garden with Aziraphale, were far, far better.


End file.
